


Dive Deep in Dark Blue, My Sweet

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Crossover, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, addams!lock, freshly married, honestly i had to write this at some point, married, the addams family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 06:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5732029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock, with their macabre taste and morbid fascination, supported and accepted each other for all they were worth, and the tasteless, boring survival they’d endured before was now an adventurous, electric afterlife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dive Deep in Dark Blue, My Sweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SassySherlockReturns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassySherlockReturns/gifts).



> This fic is based on the characters and culture of [The Addams Family](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Addams_Family), originally a set of drawn comics in _The New Yorker_ by Charles Addams, which was then adapted into a [TV Show](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Addams_Family_\(1964_TV_series\)) in the 60's, and then [movies](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Addams_Family_\(film\)) in the 90's.
> 
> It is also based on a conversation I had with [sassysherlockreturns](http://sassysherlockreturns.tumblr.com), who sparked the (already incredibly present) desire I had to write an Morticia/Gomez johnlock crossover. 
> 
> Title comes from Lana's [Swan Song](https://play.spotify.com/track/1DYRRZ5rSlc1PopnB7azLZ), and if you haven't heard all of [Honeymoon](https://play.spotify.com/album/2DpEBrjCur1ythIZ10gJWw) yet, I suggest you go and do that asap.
> 
> Last thing - follow my [tumblr](http://crimson-winter.tumblr.com) for more johnlock goodies/fic updates and check out my [other works](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/works)! ♥︎

* * *

 

 [ ](http://s1376.photobucket.com/user/helenmiladin/media/tumblr_o0y5gpiIBc1scjdfwo1_1280_zpsx8odf5y5.jpg.html)

Sherlock (Morticia) design by [sassysherlockreturns](http://sassysherlockreturns.tumblr.com)!

* * *

 Those who say you only die once are simply fools. John Watson had died twice in his life, and he was certain he’d die at least once more. The first time death had found him, he’d fallen in battle and nearly slipped away. Textbook, but still haunting. The second was infinitely moreso, as it was the moment he’d met the love of his life.

He’d been perusing the cemetery just after returning from service, still stiff in his joints and struggling to adjust back in a civilian world. He was to visit his mother’s grave this hazy Sunday morning, as as uninspired as he was to do so, he still held his head high and carried his bouquet of gardenias as if he truly cared. He stepped lightly through the misty graveyard, eyes darting from one stone slab to the next. Dark trees cast the grounds in shade, and grey clouds of fog rolled along the damp earth. It was silent, save for the low hum of spirits and loved ones lost, and John could feel the weight of death as he weaved up the hill and to his mother’s plot. As he climbed, winter coat clipped tight ‘round his waist, soldier’s boots crunching frozen twigs, mustache twitching in the cold wind, he thought of his mother. John thought of her stern eyes and quick mouth, how her sweetness had faded into stale bitterness as she aged. He felt his numb face crinkle in disgust, and he looked up at the silver sun. He sighed, a ghostly breath dancing on the chilly breeze. This was the last thing he’d wanted to do on his return from the war, though he really didn’t have much else going for him. He wallowed a bit in his own despair, mumbling to himself as he neared his mother’s grave. Then, something dark flashed in the corner of his eye, and as he turned to catch it, all disappointment fell. John’s militant attention honed in on a black-cloaked figure standing at the foot of a white marble stag, standing against the grey mist not ten meters away.

Curious, let himself stare openly. Something about the absolute stillness, the calm serenity with which this figure stood, had John sparking in fascination, and he found he couldn’t look away (not that he tried to). As he gazed on, he felt much of his childlike wonder unfurl inside him, as he’d often been drawn to the macabre. And this shadowed, hooded figure seemingly completely at home in a cemetery was definitely that.

His interests were, as his mother told him, borderline morbid. His sister shared the same odd tastes, and they had gotten along fairly well up until she disappeared after her tenth birthday. John wasn’t the most social as it was, and as she’d left, he certainly didn’t have anyone to understand him. Already a bit distant from his parents, without his sister, John felt alone, without a real family, someone to fight with, fencing or otherwise. However, even as she went out of his life, their shared love of all things weird remained.

In fact, it was this same ghoulish desire which had him joining the army. He knew of its risks, its gloom, and it fascinated him. He’d ask at bedtime for stories of soldiers and their bleeding hearts, the darkness closing in on them as they lay dying amongst the rubble. His mother, while hesitant at first, indulged him. It was when he began asking for more gruesome stories and bringing spiders and frogs into the house did she forbid all oddity, throwing his friends out into the street and smacking him on the back of the head. So, John was left to keep his twisted interests locked away. His mother’s warnings didn’t stop him, of course, as he’d still sneak a thick book of Brothers Grimm fairytales into his room. Under his blankets, he’d flip through and read the same horrors again and again, small fingers tracing the black ink illustrations on parchment. At school, he did the same, sometimes even scratching his own eerie stories into a journal. And sometimes, he’d wander off into the forest behind his school and poke at dead things with sticks and lay with the frogs. Nobody ever followed him, talked to him, or played with him, so he was left to be weird all on his own.

At home in the presence of company, his strangeness was harder to hide. His mother’s friends and his fat-faced relatives would pat his knee or pinch his cheek and ask him what he was into, what he wanted to be when he grew up. How could he explain to them that he wanted to live a life of limbo, wandering on the cusp of death and the supernatural? How could he tell them that he wanted to die in battle, to be gloried and honored for the high number of bullets his small body took before he fell? He tried, once, to be so honest, and the woman asking him went pale and shook her head, jowls jiggling. His mother shot him a glare, thin brows raising in a threat. John fell silent, resulting in telling the next person who asked anything similar that he wanted to “be a good citizen” and “serve his country.” All through adolescence, he hid his creepy amusement until it became nothing but a childhood nightmare.

But here, in the cemetery, the eerie, somewhat disturbing stillness of the figure before the statue brought it back. John’s morbid curiosity of mystery and mythical beasts and swords and pistols and cannibal tribes, of swelling blood beneath the skin before it breaks, of all things his mother had shamed him for, came back to him and stole the wind from his lungs. He couldn’t so much as husk a small breath as he set off, eager feet padding over the soft earth and the skeletons beneath, bringing him to the strange, cryptic visitor.

Apparently, he was anything but sly in his approach, and the tall creature sensed him. When they turned to face him, John Watson died for a second time.

The face that sat nestled in the raven tufts of a fur-lined hood was so hauntingly beautiful that John’s heart moaned in agony. Pale as death himself with Cupid’s rosebud lips, the stranger was a man of rare, ethereal allure. High cheekbones cast him as nearly skeletal, while his thick brows and prominent nose gave him a masculinity that had John’s body flooding with red-hot arousal. And, as the thick black cloak touched the earth, shadowing everything but the man’s face, it was the eyes which truly pulled John to his watery depth. As deep and dark as the ocean, John fell into the tides of blue, struck where he stood. The stranger flicked his eyes to inspect him, and with it, the smallest silver fish dove down into the blue dark, a spark of interest that had John drowning.

He struggled to breathe as the supernatural beauty observed him, sharp eyes darting from his stunned gaze down to his mustache and lips and even farther to his cold feet. It was a moment before the man spoke, but John, of course, didn’t hear him. He called a second time and John heard the faintest hum in his chest. On the third, a charismatic, low grumble cut through and echoed in John’s bones, finally shaping into a single word.

“Sir.”

Still, John said nothing.

“Sir?”

Then, “Sweet Devil, you are _beautiful._ ”

John hadn’t known he’d said it, but apparently he had. The stranger gasped as his eyes widened, the faintest pink creeping across his pale cheeks. The flush was sweet in its innocence, and John knew for a fact that he hadn’t ever seen anything so lovely. He felt a warm tug at the corners of his mouth as he grinned, the smile almost manic in its intensity. It didn’t put the man off, though, only encouraged him. He smiled back, the smallest twitch of perfect lips. John felt the energy between them crackle and surge as they stood, two found chess pieces on the cemetery squares, lost in each other’s eyes. They were still as stone until John remembered the bouquet in his hands. He presented it, the first of many gifts he’d come to give this incredible man. The stranger took it in his slender fingers and buried his face in the white petals, looking at John flirtatiously from under a lace of black lashes. John’s heart swelled with the weight of it, and he knew, then and there, that something incredible had finally found him.

The two were married a year later.

Sherlock, as the beauty came to introduce himself, was, of course, the missing piece of John’s heart. It was no wonder their first meeting had been so spiritual, as it was one soul finding its match. The loneliness that had lived deep in John’s bones, and apparently, Sherlock’s as well, had been replaced by the warm hum of friendship, romance, and devotion. The two of them were complete together, as if no two people had ever fit so well. They spent every moment together after that morning in the cemetery, each second better than the last. They fell into step easily wherever they went, the cadence with which they spoke was easy and natural, and when their lips met, it was as flawless as the blur where sky met the earth. They made love like the gods intended, passionate and burning. They supported and accepted each other for all they were worth, and the tasteless, boring survival they’d endured before was now an adventurous, electric afterlife.

* * *

And, as perfect as they were as two children of the night, it shouldn’t go unmentioned that the one thing that truly linked them was the same morbid, dark fascination that John thought he alone felt. Sherlock, as it should be, was just as strange and, to put it flatly, kooky as John.

In the year before they were married, Sherlock shared with John that he was a misfit in his own world. The things which fascinated them both - death and the realm of the spirits, as well as violence, anatomy, and myth - had made Sherlock an outcast. While his older brother had similar tastes, they didn’t get on especially well, only when Sherlock was truly desperate, and as his brother was always busy, Sherlock was left lonely. Children didn’t want to play with him as he only ever predicted their deaths, chanting in an ancient tongue the nature of their futures. He didn’t mean to scare them off, of course not, he thought he was being friendly. And, when he walked through the front door with a stray black cat perched on his shoulder, purple spine of a thick spell book under one arm, his mother and father thought him dabbling in witchcraft. They weren’t wrong, of course, but as it was with John, such “nonsense” wasn’t accepted in the white picket fence suburbia they’d both grown up in. So Sherlock was left to communicate with the spirits and cast spells and hexes on his own time, alone. He’d never met anyone with his particular devotion, that which surpassed Mycroft’s mild tolerance. Not until John. John normalized it. It was something both of them loved, together.

In fact, their spookiness was so prominent in their relationship that right after they married, they bought a house together. A 19th-century Victorian mansion, it sat on an isolated hill, secluded from the rest of town. Nobody had lived in it for centuries, as the town assumed it was haunted. For John and Sherlock, of course, it was perfect.

After Sherlock’s parents died, they left him and his brother both a large inheritance, which he hadn’t spent one cent of in all his lonely yeas. Now, with John, he took the money and invested in the home they built together, working for many moons until the old mansion was returned to its former glory. Grey, black, and blue, the house creaked with multiple stories, bannisters, beams, and dark, arched windows. And, best of all, when the moonlight hit it just so, it was absolutely ghoulish. A black metal gate lined the property, and inside its protection, John and Sherlock felt they had finally found a home.

And by the Devil’s name, did they relish in it.

The couple designed the interior of the house with every ounce of passion and creativity between them, making it absolutely _theirs_. They decorated the many rooms with all the oddities and trinkets that they’d collected in their life, as well as anything they found in their world travels. Ancient torture devices, mounted beasts’ heads, a full suit of armor, strange statues, a grand piano, a chandelier, and large taxidermied animals were the main features of interest, though many other knickknacks decorated the various halls and quarters. John and his husband were proud of their collection, and through their years together, they only continued to embellish their home.

Both of them loved the entirety of the mansion, from the foyer to the haunted attic, but the sitting room was most impressive. Two chairs, one for each of them, sat together before the grand fireplace. Above the mantel, swords crossed in an X, and other knives and daggers surrounded it. Sherlock had taken one of the daggers and stabbed it into a pile of letters against the wood of the mantel, leaving it stuck at an angel. Beside it sat his human skull, Billy, and the Persian slipper that held his dried tobacco. Ancient Egyptian vases sat on pedestals beside the stone fireplace, souls trapped within the clay. The sitting room presented most of their favorite features, such as Chinese statues and a stuffed bear, poised to attack. As guests saw this room most often, it had to be absolutely perfect. And it was, John and Sherlock loved their sitting room very much. Of course, as they had the space, the two also designed rooms specifically for themselves which guests seldom toured.

Sherlock had given himself an indoor garden where he conducted botany experiments and grew plants that had been outlawed due to their poison serums, or, in one case, “lively, vicious intent.” He spent many days there, studying, experimenting, and clipping the blood red blossoms of his roses and arranging their thin, spiky stems in bouquets. He didn’t often need to be without John, but when he did, he sought peace in his garden, creating, killing, and thriving amidst his plants.

John’s personal room was that which featured his trains. He had indulged as a child in laying tracks and rolling wooden trains along them, but now, with Sherlock’s support, he could devote an entire room to it. He laid out an impressive town with a winding railroad, and while he didn’t need to often, he used the tracks and an electric remote to crash two engines together and let off his steam, no pun intended.

And, since Sherlock and John had such a beautiful home, they often hosted guests. They weren’t the most sociable people in the world, but their bitter loneliness had faded as they met, and now they wanted to share their world with anyone they could. They’d welcome investment bankers and neighbors into their haunted mansion and put them up in the guest room should they stay longer. The iron-spiked beds and wooden pillories seemed welcoming enough, as they designed it to be so, but apparently their guests thought otherwise. Naturally, people gave them the same response that their parents and classmates had, but now - it didn’t matter. They had each other and, a few months in, an old maid. She didn’t mind their quirks in the slightest, so they truly had no reason to apologize for their lifestyle.

No, they decided on their wedding day that they would never stifle their eccentricities. Along with eternal devotion, they promised acceptance and support, honoring the fact that they differed from the norm. This promise they kept with them through the entirety of their life together (and all lives after), but it didn’t seem necessary to uphold in the first six months of their marriage, as they rarely left their bedroom.

Yes, though most of the house was beautiful in its strangeness, the master bedroom was the heart of it.

John and Sherlock would make love so often, actually, the act itself became an otherworldly experience all its own. The passion and ferocity of their love could only be matched by physical intimacy, and they were, in all truth, experts. An extension of both of them, it matched their physical attraction with soul-binding devotion, and skin to skin, they roused the spirits. John knew how to have Sherlock arching off the bed in pleasure, while Sherlock could bring John rising up like the tide with a flick of his delicate wrist. John’s mustache would leave red rashes on Sherlock’s pale skin, and Sherlock’s strong fingers raked matching marks in John’s. Their love left bruises and bites, blushing cheeks and sweaty brows, tingling nerves and heaving chests. Afterwards, they felt the other never looked so beautiful as he did while laying beside him in bliss, Sherlock’s dark curls mussed up and spread out against the silk pillows, John’s deep, steady eyes holding him in place as they came back to Earth. It was magnificent, every time better than the last. While it had them going silly in their bedroom, the two always resumed regality as soon as they stepped back into the hallway (unless, of course, the maid was out and they could take upon a settee or inside an iron maiden). Only the barest hint of evidence remained, red scratches on Sherlock’s back or a faintly purple mark on his neck. And they often showed, too, as Sherlock would dress himself in ridiculously low-cut garb.

He’d wear black, open-collared shirts that dipped so low into a V at his clavicle that John couldn’t help but bring him into the bedroom and lick a stripe up it, chasing the column of his neck to his ear. Sometimes he reversed the look, wearing something that went high at his neck and swooped low in the back, revealing his deep spine and John’s bristly kiss marks.

All of his clothes were black, naturally, and no matter the style of his top, his trousers were always the same: black, skin-tight, and deliciously outlining the curve of his arse. His shoes, too, were just as elegant, with pointed toes and thin laces.

Sherlock’s favorite pieces, of course, were his cloaks and coats. He often wore black robes (sometimes with nothing else, which was John’s favorite look) that draped off his broad shoulders and to the floor, flowing behind him. The cloak he’d worn when he met John was wonderful, too, but it was too thick and warm to wear around the house. To lounge around, Sherlock wore whatever he fancied, which was, sometimes, nearly nothing but a few lines of black lace.

* * *

Once, actually, John was milling about the sitting room, polishing the tortoise’s head, when Sherlock appeared at the top of the high staircase. His elegant, long body was draped in black silk, a deep V at his chest, his robe slipping halfway off his shoulders, his heavy, open sleeves falling down beside his hips.

“John,” he said, voice rumbling through the sitting room.

John paused his polishing and turned to see his husband as he stood. John went hot, as he often did when looking at Sherlock, and watched, transfixed, as he walked down, hips swaying, one arm trailing along the golden bannister.

Now, John Watson knew what he liked. He liked weird things, beautiful things, and his husband, who happened to be both of the latter. Sherlock knew this. Sherlock knew his husband loved him, and he took every opportunity he could to make him lose his mind.

Today, “Seduce John” was high on his list.

Sherlock eyed John flirtatiously as he straightened up, dropped the rag onto the turtle’s head, and walked calmly towards the bottom of the stairs.

Unlike Sherlock, he did not wear all black. He wore mostly wore variants of grey suits, and on occasion, a charcoal ensemble with white pinstripes. And, John eyed him now, he once again realized the stark contrast between them. Where Sherlock’s hair was dark as night, John’s was light as day, blond and short, unlike Sherlock’s thick curls. And Sherlock’s smooth, perfect lips contrasted the twitchy, bristly mustache John wore. John was classically masculine and modest where Sherlock dabbled in the blurred lines of femininity and vanity. That being said, John had never met a woman in his life who embodied as much grace, poise, and sensuality that his husband did. Again, Sherlock knew this.

And John knew it too, as well as the fact that Sherlock found him just as handsome as he did him. Sherlock was attracted to John’s short, muscular build and sturdy frame, his worn, wise eyes and quirking mouth. John, in turn, thought Sherlock a macabre beauty, especially now as he posed, regal as ever, on the bottom stair.

He held out a slender arm, pointing his fingers at the floor, silver wedding band glinting in the yellow light of the sitting room. John, now standing before him, took his hand as he offered it and bent, kissing his knuckles.

“My sweet,” he said, looking up into Sherlock’s exquisite features with steady, lustful eyes, heat simmering just below the surface. Sherlock smirked at it, knowing that if he asked, John would take him to bed that instant. Which was, in all honestly, sort of the point.

“ _Mon cher_ ,” Sherlock hummed, twisting his wrist out of John’s gentle grasp to run his fingers down his face.

Many things about Sherlock surprised and aroused John as they came to know each other, but one of the sexiest, John found, was Sherlock’s intelligence. He was so incredibly smart - a proper genius. It was Sherlock’s eye, actually, that guided the stylistic choices of their home, his logic and creativity doing well in placing the oddities around the mansion. And, when they were out on the town, in this or any other country, he’d lean into John and whisper little “deductions” about the people they saw, retelling their stories, secrets, futures, and deaths. Of course, none of these tricks and traits had John praising him like Sherlock’s eloquence did. Especially in other languages, most commonly, French.

John had picked up some languages here and there in his travels, in his military service, but he couldn’t match the entire phrases Sherlock moaned to him in bed as he worked between his legs. He could only stutter out some Spanish or Italian here and there, nothing in comparison to Sherlock’s Latin and Greek.

What he could do, however, was give Sherlock pet names. And he did - _querido mio, cara bella, mio marito,_ or, as he responded now…

“ _Cara mio._ ”

He caught Sherlock’s hand again, just as his fingertips grazed John’s bottom lip, and kissed the pads of his fingers before movingonto the stair beside him and peppering kisses up the length of his arm, mumbling sweetness as he went.

“ _Ma douce,_ ” Sherlock hummed, John at the delicate crease of his elbow.

John went up to his bicep, “ _Bellissimo._ ”

Sherlock turned his head as John brought the kisses up his shoulder and to his neck, soft and bristly all at once.

He went warm and tingly and let out the smallest moan followed by, “ _Je vous aime_.”

John was quick to respond, nipping just below his ear with, “ _Te amo._ ”

And then Sherlock turned his head to meet John’s mouth, ending in the softest compression of lips. Tender and lovely, with absolutely no reason to be so gentle as their maid was nowhere in sight, they kissed on the stairs. It was innocent enough before John gripped Sherlock’s trim little waist and pulled him flush against him, lining up their bodies and deepening the kiss. Sherlock was taller, but John was sturdy, and he held steady as Sherlock melted into him, wrapping his long, delicate arms around John’s shoulders and deepening the kiss.

When he finally pulled away, their lips were wet. Sherlock smirked. He didn’t know French for nothing.

John was about to go in again when he heard someone clear their throat.

He looked towards the sound and found their maid, Mrs Hudson, standing pleasantly at the foot of the stairs, a letter in her hands.

“Pardon me, sirs, but a letter came.”

John untangled himself from his husband and stepped down, taking the letter. “Thank you, Martha.”

“No need for first names, sir, call me -“

“Nonsense. You’re part of the family now. Martha is fine.” John beamed, cheeks still a bit pink from tasting Sherlock’s tongue down his throat.

Mrs Hudson curtsied, “Thank you, sir,” and scuttled off. He watched her go, chuckling at how she stopped to dust the suit of armor’s shoulder before she disappeared into the kitchen.

“Batty old woman, thinking she’s not welcome,” John mumbled as he turned the letter over in his hands. It was addressed to both him and Sherlock. Sherlock shifted behind him, draping his arms over his shoulders and resting his chin on John’s head affectionately.

John opened the wax seal and began reading. He got halfway down the page before he tensed, breath catching.

“What is it, love?” Sherlock asked, leaning down farther to kiss John’s cheek and nestle into his neck.

“It’s Harry,” John said in all seriousness. “She’s alive.”

Sherlock’s lips brushed his jaw as they parted to ask, “Your sister?”

John held the letter up to the light, Sherlock following the movement. They both paused in silence to admire the handiwork, rushed script and a few ink blotches.

After nearly thirty years, John’s sister was alive and, more importantly, had made contact. The content of the letter confirmed it, serious and to the point, as if she had little time to write, but it was the sign off that changed everything.

Harry Watson had written, “I hear you found yourself a husband. I can’t wait to meet both of you, dear brother. We are far overdue. See you soon, Harriet.”

Sherlock eyed the signature over John’s shoulder. John was silent, so Sherlock confirmed what they both already knew. “Harry wants to see us,” he whispered.

John let out the breath he was holding. “Yeah.”

And with that, the weight of it hit them. John’s sister was safe. They were going to see her. They weren’t the only ones in the world anymore, their odd little family was going to expand.

Suddenly, John leapt from under Sherlock’s arms and turned to take him by the waist. He lifted him off the step and spun him, smiling and laughing as if he’d been told the best news in the world. Sherlock rejoiced in his delight, smiling just as bright as John brought him back down and buried his face in his neck, eyes brimming with happy tears.

Sherlock was happy for his love, and for himself, for the chance to meet John’s family, someone who shared their love of the abnormal.

In fact, the sentiment was so clear that it made Sherlock think of his own brother, who had supposedly been struggling to contain conspiracies regarding popular figureheads and celebrities in a manner not yet approved by the government. The last he heard of Mycroft Holmes was something regarding a beheading in Ukraine. He was always busy, and while they had their disagreements, Mycroft had supported him through some of the darkest times in his life, and Sherlock did love him for that. Actually, Sherlock had been just as happy as John when Mycroft sent him a congratulatory letter a few days after his wedding, signing it with, “I’ll always be there for you.”

It made Sherlock well up, actually, to think that there was a possibility that his brother and John’s sister may someday meet, that he and John’s worlds would mesh once again. Because, in all honesty, while Sherlock loved his peace and solitude with John, he realized a few months prior that they had developed quite a life for themselves, and it’d be a shame if they never got in touch with those who’d appreciate it. Or, should that day ever come, adopt some kids who they could share it with.

But now, with Harriet’s word, there was cause for hope.

Their little world, their beautiful home, might expand sometime in the near future. And that, truly, was cause for celebration.

John must have sensed Sherlock’s thought, because he quickly picked him up with his soldier’s strength and slung him over his shoulder. Mrs Hudson appeared just as he did, and Sherlock could only wave a meek goodbye as John carried him up the staircase and to the master bedroom. He brought Sherlock all through the hall and thrust open the door of their room with one hand, the other on Sherlock’s bum. He rushed inside and threw Sherlock on the large bed, letting the door slam shut just as he fell atop him, smothering him in happy kisses.

Giggles and breathless laughter could be heard all through the house then as the couple did what they did best - loved each other and the life they made together with the deepest, darkest ferocity.

And they were happy. The Watsons (occasionally written as Holmes-Watsons, mind you) were happy.


End file.
